This Is Pouring Rain (This Is Paralyzed)
by 10millionpeople
Summary: I go deaf, underwater. When I surface, my hands are clutching her forearms so hard I think I've broken skin, even through her sweater. The first noise I hear is her gasp, wet and sputtering and I have blood on my face—why is there blood on my face? / WillAbigail. Don't let the description fool you- it's mainly fluff. Rewrite of the antler room scene, 1x12. Spoilers.


**A/N- Well this is AU. Yep. Well. That happened.**

**It's a little different than my last Hannibal fic (not purely fluff, yay!) and is pretty much just an alternate ending to the antler room scene in 1x12 "Releves" because I didn't like the actual ending.**

**I was thinking of making it a multi-chap, but then changed it to fit a oneshot. What can I say, I have commitment issues…but guess what, it actually has plot! Yay! But then it doesn't…whoops.**

**For any of you who like to listen to music while reading, I played James Vincent McMorrow's "We Don't Eat," Bon Iver's "Re: Stacks," and Mat Kearney's "All I Need" while writing this. They're perfect songs, oh god.**

**Thanks guys! **

* * *

When we get to Minnesota, the first place I take her is to the shed.

We enter, climbing the rickety steps to the loft, still bloodstained, and I have to look twice to reassure myself that Marissa isn't still hanging on the far end.

(She wouldn't want me knowing, but I see her blink repeatedly and look that way, too.)

Memories hang around us like musty curtains. _Like stained curtains_, I think; she was right about that. She's the first to speak. "Do you ever hunt?"

"I fish," I reply, and if it was at any other moment, I'd ask her if she wanted to come with me sometime.

Her answer is quick, lilts a little at the end. The sterility of the conversation starts to fade. "It's the same thing, isn't it? One you stalk, the other you lure."

As I ponder this, realization sets in. I can feel the weight of her impending confession begin to slide off her shoulders and onto mine. "Were you more a fisherman or a hunter?"

"My dad taught me how to hunt," she backpedals, and the burden rolls indecisively between us.

"That's not what I'm asking." Moving towards her, I grab the load for myself, at this point more out of spite than care. "All those girls your dad killed. Did you fish or did you hunt, Abigail?"

I inch closer and closer to her, and by the time she opens her mouth again I have her blockaded against a set of antlers.

She speaks slowly, softly. "I was the lure." Prepared or not, my shoulders still slump under the weight. "Did Hannibal tell you?" I chuff sarcastically. Of course Hannibal knew and I didn't; of course I was expected to be so far out of the picture anyway there was really no need in telling me.

A shaky intensity overtakes me. I'm thinking too much I know, but I can't stop.

She thinks I didn't see the way her fingers tensed up when I held them in my own, begging her to come with me here. The way she fidgeted in her plane seat, sacrificing physical comfort in order to not accidently bump my elbow.

"No, he didn't," I reply, venom laced in my words. She tries to back away from me, but winds up further in the antlers. Their points wrap around her head like a crown.

"He said you'd protect me, that'd you keep this a secret…" Anger flares up inside of me. She doesn't apologize. The only reason she cares that I know is because she's afraid I'll breech the confidentiality of the subject.

My breathing gets ragged. Keep it a secret? She told me that killing her father didn't make _me _her father, but now she expects me to act like one?

Jesus, I wish Thomas Boyle had killed her when he had the chance. So many things would be easier with her out of the picture, I think, and familiarly, my thoughts are a killer's thoughts, but now it's a killer I can't name. They're the brewings of a psychopath not yet unearthed, and it doesn't startle me when I realize they are my own.

I go deaf, underwater. When I surface, my hands are clutching her forearms so hard I think I've broken skin, even through her sweater. The first noise I hear is her gasp, wet and sputtering and I have blood on my face—why is there blood on my face?

The weight of her settles in my arms and I come to the realization that I am holding her up, impaled on the antlers behind. She is wheezing, blood bubbling up her throat, and I'm on autopilot, unable to stop the grip of my hands or the knocking of my knees.

I dig my fingers deeper into her, pushing her farther onto the antlers, feeling the blood from her two chest wounds drip down the front of my shirt. Gathering as much mental strength as I still have, I will myself to pull her back, off the antlers and into my chest.

Any attempt is in vain, I realize, and press on her harder until the blood begins to quell her cries. The killer inside me has submerged, and now he's forcing me to watch.

I continue to rattle her upper body, her yelps getting lower with each thrust of my arms. She begins to still; I hear myself laugh.

And then suddenly, she's beside me, alive and out of the grave where I thought I had buried her. She's unscathed—no flesh wounds, no holes in her sweater. I touch my face and find it free from splatter.

I gape, relief washing over me like a tidal wave. It crashes when I hear her speak. "There is something wrong with you…" She starts, more concerned than afraid, and I repeat back to myself: _Nothing in the past few moments happened._

I loosen_. _She's alive. I didn't kill her. Oh thank _god_—"Will?"

I don't think; I'm done with thinking. Lunging, I grab her face and angle it towards mine, crashing our lips together. Maybe there is something wrong with me, but I don't take time to ponder it. I have only two things going on in my head right now: the feel of her, heavy and tangible against my body, and one constant mantra, _you're alive, you're alive, you're alive._

I don't count heartbeats, but before too many she kisses me back. I can almost hear the skeletons in my closet get out and walk away, bones rattling as they go.

I pull away when hot liquid hits my face, and Jesus, is it thick enough to be blood—?

But I'm crying. _Not blood_, I tell myself, pulling down my shirtsleeve to wipe my face. She exhales, recollects herself. Doesn't seem to hold me with as much complexity as I remember earlier.

Still her face has twisted into confusion. My eyes dry, and I have a hand on her cheek, I notice. I let it drop, knots tangling in my stomach. If what just happened was me not thinking, then that could be just as dangerous as the alternative.

Oh god. "Abigail," I start, and she looks at me like warm wine. "I'm sick. I get these hallucinations, and I don't know…" Pause. "What is the last thing I said to you, before...?" I don't say the word _kiss_, but I think it, and it gets a little more tangible.

I bury my face in my hands. "You asked me if I fished…" she manages. "Or hunted." I nod, eyes focused on my shoes. She doesn't back away from me now. Rather, she creeps her head into my line of vision, into the hole of dirt where I've retreated.

She starts digging. "Will, are you okay?" And I'm pretty sure this is the first time someone has asked me that and not needed something in return. I hold onto this as the knot in my stomach tightens.

All of a sudden, my vision starts to blur (_are the antlers closing in on us?_) and I don't think, because thinking releases the killer—or had I fantasized him, too?

I back away from her. "I am so sorry, Abigail," I whisper, and the last thing I see before everything goes black is her face twisted in a gasp, hand outstretched.

* * *

The first thing I see is pale sunlight fading in through drawn blinds. _Where am_—

"Good, you're awake," she breathes, and when I move to sit up, she hands me a mug of hot coffee. Good, because I have the worst taste in my mouth. It smells familiar, and I remember that we're in Minnesota, we took a plane here. I had a coffee on the way and it smelled like this.

As I enter consciousness, I become acutely aware of my splitting head; I go to reach in my jacket pocket for my pills, but I'm not wearing it. I'm not wearing a shirt at all, I realize, and start.

I assess my situation. I'm on a couch, blanketed, in the Hobbs' house, no shirt. A faint smell of bile makes its way into my consciousness. The sound of a coffee drip, washing machine.

"What happened?" I slur a little in my speech, dip down to the coffee. I drink graciously.

She sits down on the table in front of me. "You had a seizure, Will… you don't remember?" Her scarf is draped over the edge of the couch, not around her neck. HerThe scar shows through her hair, and I don't want to know what kind of stained curtains are hanging in that kitchen. _Still_, I think, _she made me coffee_.

I shake my head. She sighs. "You told me you were sorry, and then you got really stiff… I was afraid you were going to fall, so I got you to lie down on the floor." She wrinkles her nose. It's cute. "But you threw up—it got on your shirt and jacket some. When I was able to get you back here, I took them off to wash. There aren't any other clothes here, so I just..." she trails off. I smile at her, but my head hurts so bad, I can't move any muscles very much.

She looks at me and chuffs. "God, Will, I was so scared," she says, taking my hand. This time, she envelopes mine. "How do you feel?"

"Like hell, actually." She drops my hand, and I let it rest on her knee. "Thank you, Abigail." She smiles at me.

"The coffee will help with that taste in your mouth, too. I couldn't find mouthwash anywhere."

I swing my legs carefully over the side of the couch, and she gets up to help me stand. The side of her breast rubs against my abdomen and our cheeks both hue pink.

She takes my arm, and slowly we shake my legs into consciousness. "Did you find a pill bottle in my jacket by any chance?"

"I did, actually." She motions over to where the washer and dryer are. "I saw a little basket on top of the dryer, so I put it in there. I can get you one if you need it," she says and I nod. Slowly I straighten, standing on my own, as she pads to get my medicine. I watch her go. She isn't wearing shoes.

I fumble my way into the kitchen after her, still weak and wobbly. Things get dangerous when I neglect thinking, but what the hell. Things get dangerous when I think too much, too. Her back is to me, popping the lid of the bottle to shake me two capsules out. I come behind her slowly, chasing the image of her hanging from a pair of antlers out of my head, and wrap my arms around her waist.

She gasps in surprise, and I press my cheek to her shoulder blade. "Will—" she falters, but I shush her.

"Don't think. You can't think. It complicates things." She sighs, turns around in my arms, but not leaving.

"Will, what's going on with you?" I move my head up to look at her, and it protests with a sharp pain behind my eyes. "First you made me afraid of you, then you…you _kissed_ me, then the seizures, and this…"

"Abigail, how much time passed between when I asked if you fished or hunted and when I kissed you?"

She purses her lips. "God, maybe seven minutes? Maybe a little more? You were just walking around, muttering to yourself." I press her closer to me. She complies, puts her hands at my sides.

"So I didn't try to hurt you?" I ask her, and she pulls back.

"No, Will…of course not," she says, concern etched in her face. My hand wanders again to her cheek.

"I told you about the hallucinations?" She nods. "I was having one then."

Confusion settles over her, but is soon replaced by realization. "Of killing me," she whispers, and I give her a sad smile.

"I'm so sorry, Abigail." At this she presses her uncovered cheek to my chest, and my bare skin tingles at having her so close. She wraps her arms fully around me, her fingers running long stretches up and down my back.

I stop my heart to match her beats. She doesn't notice. "You smell like bad aftershave," she remarks, and I laugh.

"Yeah, I get that a lot, actually," I say, but before I even have time to finish, she's kissing me, deep and passionate, like years of pent-up tension (I haven't even known her for years) and all the nightmares that connect us.

I don't hesitate in kissing her back, my hand moving from her cheek to the back of her head so I can hold her tighter against my lips. She smiles into me. My head is throbbing, but so is between my legs, and right now I'm not thinking with either, I'm just doing. (Something tells me she is right now, too.)

I jump back to the cabin. _"I was the lure."_

"Abigail," I exhale against her lips, pulling back. "Abigail, I need to ask you something. Can I do that?" Shadows cover her face, but she nods. "Did you lure those girls?"

She inhales, holds it. Doesn't look at me. And we're in the kitchen, I suddenly gather, and damnit, we're tangled in all those curtains.

"I'm so sorry, Will," she whispers, and I press her against my chest again, hand tangled in her hair. Suddenly, I feel her shudder, letting out these tiny sobs. I can feel her hot tears against my skin and I make low, shushing noises to calm her down. "He said if it wasn't them, it was me."

"Shh, Abigail, it's okay…" God, I don't know what to do. Jack will find out, I know, and that's her entire life taken away. I don't want to think about that. So much has happened since we got here, and I don't want to think about any of it or anything.

I pull her further into me. "We're gonna get through this," I tell her with as much confidence as I can muster, but I have the feeling she already knows we aren't. She sighs in my arms, sobs quieting, and presses a long kiss to my collarbone.

Tilting my head down, I press our foreheads together. I kiss her for a third time today, but it's soft and slow and more like a promise, a promise to protect her. "We're going to be fine," I reassure against her lips, hands cradling her face, and this time, I don't have to force my heart to beat with hers. It simply does.

Slowly, the curtains begin to lift. There's a light coming through their cracks.

* * *

**A/N- I don't even know what I'm doing with my life anymore. Reviews are appreciated, or if you just want to rant about Abigill feels. Any and all are welcome!**


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